


Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

by sobefarrington



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 04:32:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sobefarrington/pseuds/sobefarrington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where does Sherlock go after The Fall...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

Walk.  
Walk.  
Walk.

Pause. Turn. Look. Breathe. Walk.

 

Walk.   
Walk.  
Walk.

Pause. Turn. Look. Sigh. Walk.

The afternoon air was cooling as autumn moved its way into winter. It was late November and the leaves that remained on the bed of the woods crunched under his feet, reminding him of another season come to pass. It had been one year, ten months, two weeks and three days since Sherlock had seen John. If asked he was certain he could work out the number of hours it had been since he’d last laid eyes on his best friend, but no one would ever ask.

Because no one knew.

No one knew him.

Sherlock had taken up residence in a small wooded cabin deep in the countryside. The property was encased in trees. Giant Oaks and Douglas Firs. An area so dense with forest Sherlock added a shillelagh to his outdoor adventures, needing the walking stick to navigate some of the terrain. The company that frequented him was primarily made up of deer, rabbits and the occasional fox. Sherlock managed to farm his own fruits and vegetables, keeping a few chickens for eggs in a shed on his acreage. It was a major change from his former city dwellings, but he enjoyed it.

Walk.  
Walk.  
Walk.

Pause. Turn. Look. Wait. Sigh. Walk.

He mostly enjoyed it.

He wasn’t going to argue with himself, or fight the feeling when it crept its way into his heart. The ache that overcame him from time to time was unbearable, and Sherlock was forced to cringe on his sofa in pain. He sobbed, the emptiness eating away at his soul.

Walk.  
Walk.  
Walk.

Pause. Wait. Sigh. Walk.

 

But it was for the best. It kept everyone safe. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mycroft. 

John.

It kept John safe. The only person who had truly been a friend to Sherlock in the last few years. The person who stood by him even when he thought Sherlock was wrong.   
Even when he didn’t understand what Sherlock was doing. He defended him until the end. 

Pause. Walk.

He fought back the emotion as he journeyed on.

The wind picked up, reminding Sherlock that the snow was due to arrive that night, as he trudged on back towards his home. The sun had started to set and rob the day of its light, leaving the sky romantic shades of pink and orange, hues to match the colour of his cheeks and the leaves on the ground. 

Soon the season would be over, and the walks he so looked forward to would become shorter and more hurried. He had once enjoyed winters. The coziness of his London apartment, the company that John had provided on the few snowed in days they had. The magic of the city when it was draped in white.

Winter in the countryside was hard work.

Pause. Walk.

Sherlock could see the smoke from his sitting room fireplace still billowing from the chimney, even though it had died down some in the hour or so he’d been away. Home was just a short distance away, and Sherlock was growing tired of all the pausing.

“Come’n Watson. We’re nearly there old pal.”

Sherlock waited again, paused atop a rock just wide enough to keep his feet while he waited for his best friend to catch up.

Shortly Watson, a five year old beagle Sherlock had rescued from an animal shelter nearly a year ago, caught up to his owner. The dog moved slowly – his age not helping his situation, sniffing at everything he was unsure of and stepping gently where he was uncertain of his surroundings. The dog was shy and hesitant to make a sound most of the time. So much like John in so many ways.

Watson sniffed the ground next to Sherlock’s rock before sitting and looking up at his owner. He gave a questioned look, as if he wondered why they were stopped. The dog tilted his head as Sherlock bent down to pet him. Watson pushed the top of his head into Sherlock’s hand as he ran his palm over him and down him back. The dog panted and whimpered. He truly loved Sherlock, just as much as Sherlock loved him.

“Come’n old pal,” Sherlock spoke to the dog quietly, the tone of his voice changing from hollering for him to speaking to him “We’re nearly home.”

Sherlock heard his words and thought them to himself. 

Home.

The cabin may have provided him shelter and saved him from freezing in the woods, it didn’t feel like home.

It would never feel like home.


End file.
